


threat assessment

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: better the devil you know... [2]
Category: Wolverine (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bars and Pubs, Companion Piece, Consent Issues, Deception, Dubious Ethics, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, One Night Stands, Pre-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 18:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10747779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: Pierce knows that Logan has killed an almost unimaginable amount of people, shredded literal pounds of flesh, spilled enough blood to soak a battlefield. He’s seen the proof, studied the videos and the glossy photographs pinned to the walls in Rice’s lab.But the man sitting across from him doesn’t look capable of killing anyone, except perhaps himself.(or, Pierce and Logan have met before, in an El Paso bar in the early hours of the morning. Logan just doesn't remember.Pierce, on the other hand, remembers everything.)





	threat assessment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dansunedisco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/gifts).



> companion fic to [how to fall through the cracks.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10723521) most of the dialogue in this is identical to that fic, for obvious reasons.
> 
> the working title of this was "bad wrong trash ship: the reckoning," because of course it was. **_please_** heed the tags. this is essentially the story of a bad man doing not-so great things to a sad man.

The sun is blisteringly hot and fiercely bright overhead when Pierce crosses the border into El Paso. 

It’s the middle of the afternoon, but traffic is still intense, and his special passport only grants him so many privileges, which means that it’ll still be some time before he actually reaches the city proper. He stripped his jacket off long ago, and the metal of his prosthetic glints in the rays of sun piercing through the open windows. Sweat beads on his bare arms, but he doesn’t turn on the air conditioning. Instead, he taps his synthetic fingers off the steering wheel to the approximate beat of the old rock song playing and watches as traffic slowly creeps along, the air shimmering with exhaust fumes.

He’s spent twenty-two of the last forty-eight hours in the truck, making his way up from Mexico City. He could have easily flown; lord knows there’s more than enough money in Transigen's budget to support a plane ticket every so often. He could have just as easily made a phone call to their people in El Paso and had reliable intel within a few hours. But he’d opted to play this mission close to the chest, take the long drive alone, without a team of Reavers for back-up. 

He wants to see the last of the true mutants, the vaunted Wolverine, the one who made their entire program possible, with his own two eyes, without distractions. 

He’s seen him before, of course, in videos and photographs; hell, he even has some of the old comics stashed away in his quarters, likes to pull them out sometimes and laugh at the inaccuracy of them, at how all the mutants were painted with the brush of a hero, made out to be larger than life figures incapable of death. 

(It’s almost a shame how utterly _wrong_ that impression turned out to be.)

And he’s all too familiar with X-24, the feral beast equipped with Wolverine’s face and power but lacking anything as inconvenient as a conscience. He’s seen the creature in action, seen it tear through no less than thirty Reavers in the months since it was brought to life, but, after the initial adjustment period, that became no more exciting than staring at a factory machine doing its job. The beast simply doesn’t have the essence of the man, the mutant. Its existence doesn’t answer the question that Pierce has been pondering for years. 

Namely, how a man with so much time under his belt and so much blood coating his hands continues to exist.

Of course, that isn’t the only purpose to his mission. X-24 is almost ready to be deployed, which means that the last remaining parts of the X-23 program will have to be eliminated. Pierce isn’t anticipating any issues with the clean-up; if there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s his job, and eliminating potential security risks, liabilities, test subjects, certainly falls into that category. But, just in case something does go wrong, in case there’s a leak or, lord forbid, an actual _escape_ , he needs to know whether or not there’ll be any trouble. 

He needs to know if Wolverine, if _Logan_ , will pose any problems, in the off-chance that he’s somehow brought into the matter. 

Pierce suspects not. After all, it isn’t as if Logan is trying to remain off the grid; the last reliable intel they received, mere weeks ago, was that he’d relocated to El Paso after the incident in Winchester, that he was working as a limousine driver under his own name. 

It’s not the behavior of a man who wishes to get involved. It’s the behavior of a man who just wants to be left alone. 

Pierce can almost respect that. 

As traffic continues to inch forward, slowly lightning as people turn off, Pierce presses a button on the dashboard, which has been programmed to call his contact in the city. 

“Where we at with the job I sent you earlier?” he asks, thumbing the radio’s volume down. 

“Our man at the border says the target crossed just an hour ago. I’ll let you know when we have a more accurate location.” 

Without a goodbye, Pierce severs the connection and goes back to tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. 

&.

By the time he finally makes it to the hotel room he’s rented under a false name, some of the heat of the day has finally dropped off. As he crosses the parking lot, his phone goes off and he answers without looking. The contact gives him an address where Logan’s limousine has been spotted, and Pierce hangs up, does an about-face, and strides straight back towards the truck. 

Checking in can wait. 

Another fifteen minute drive over shimmering streets finds him parked across the road from the limo, which is waiting outside a hotel. There’s a slouched form in the driver’s seat that keeps raising a bottle to its lips, and while Pierce would have to get closer to get visual confirmation, the license plate number and vehicle description are a perfect match.

He tugs his coat back on and slides a device the size and shape of a hockey puck into a deep pocket before he steps outside. His sunglasses do nothing to cut out the glare being thrown off the windows around him, and he squints as he crosses the street, a few yards down from the limo. There’s a souvenir shop peddling all sorts of useless crap directly in front of him, and he pretends to be interested in the window display, keeping his gaze tilted towards the limousine all the while. 

Nobody comes out of the front seat or slides into the back and, since his window of opportunity is closing with each minute that passes, he makes his move. 

It’s almost laughably easy to plant the device. Once he reaches the back tire, he drops to one knee, yanks at the laces in his boot and presses the puck just inside the wheelwell. 

Nobody steps out of the limo, and nobody passing by asks what he’s doing. 

He laughs to himself as he crosses the street once more. 

If this says anything about how the rest of the mission is going to unfold, he has a feeling he’ll be leaving town a lot sooner than he anticipated. 

&.

From there, it’s just a matter of waiting. 

He heads back to the hotel, checks in, and stretches out on the king-size bed, boots still on. He orders room service without looking at the price, pays for it all with cash, and keeps a close eye on the tablet plugged into the complimentary charger on the bedside table, watches the blue dot that represents the limousine move back and forth across the city. 

Hours pass. The streets fill with noise, honking horns and bursts of laughter as loud as gunfire, and it’s only when he steps out into the balcony that he makes the connection that it’s Halloween. He’s sure the nurses and staff at headquarters have done something to celebrate the holiday, dressed up the test subjects in pathetic homemade costumes and brought them candy. It’s a behavior they’ve tried to weed out of them, but no matter how many people they fire, how many they make examples of, it just keeps happening. 

But, this time, he supposes there’s less harm in letting them have their fun. By the time the next major holiday comes around, they’ll all have been purged; the nurses, the support staff, the test subjects. Anyone who might pose a security threat. 

He’s still deciding on what the most efficient way to do it would be. All of the options he’s considered so far have more advantages than drawbacks. 

Maybe, in the end, he’ll just flip a coin. 

He allows himself a hand-rolled cigarette as he watches the crowds streaming by below, groups of children in bright costumes, revelers already close to being drunk in skimpy, skin-baring outfits. On a night like tonight, it’s all too possible that it’ll be hours before Logan is off shift, before he’s in one spot long enough for Pierce to approach him.

Thankfully, Pierce muses as he taps ashes over the railing, he has nothing but time. 

&.

By the time the dot stops moving, it’s three o’clock in the morning. 

Pierce isn’t anywhere close to being tired. Twenty-four hours without sleep means nothing to him; that was trained out of him long ago. 

It takes him ten minutes through mostly empty streets to reach the location, and when he pulls into the half-full parking lot, as far away from the limo as possible, he barely bites back a laugh. 

It’s been a long time since he’s been in a true dive bar, one that doesn’t try to market itself as something else. One glance at the battered facade, the feebly flickering neon signs, tells him that this is a place for the people who’ve given up, who want to be alone with their problems.

Smoking has been outlawed in bars for decades, but when Pierce steps inside, he swears he can still smell the ghost of a million cigarettes, lingering in the walls and the rough floorboards. There’s more recent smells as well, spilled gallons of booze and working-man sweat. When he steps further inside, taking in the lay of the land, the floor is reluctant to let go of his boots, sticky and in need of a good mopping. 

The room is on the way to emptying out, but there are still some lost souls slumped in the booths and perched on the stools, leaning heavily against the long, wooden bar. There’s one in particular that draws Pierce’s attention, seated front and center, head lowered and broad shoulders slumped like a dog that’s received a sharp kick to the ribs.

There’s no one else within sight that even remotely resembles Logan, so Pierce makes his move. 

Both the stools on either side of Logan are unoccupied, and Pierce takes the one on the left. He glances sideways, prepared for questioning bordering on interrogation, but before he can sort through his planned responses, his thoughts stop in their tracks. 

Pierce knows that Logan has killed an almost unimaginable amount of people, shredded literal pounds of flesh, spilled enough blood to soak a battlefield. He’s seen the proof, studied the videos and the glossy photographs pinned to the walls in Rice’s lab. 

But the man sitting across from him doesn’t look capable of killing anyone, except perhaps himself.

The years are finally starting to show on his face. There are deep lines sunk into the skin around his mouth, and red blood vessels jostle for space in his blank eyes. The hair covering his face and head is unkempt and more gray than black. There’s a cut on his forehead that still has blood clinging to the edges, a cut that by all rights shouldn’t exist. When Pierce drops his eyes to where Logan’s hands, two of the most powerful weapons in history, are wrapped around the body of a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey, he isn’t surprised to see that the spaces between his fingers are criss-crossed with a network of old and new white scars. 

Pierce can’t help but wonder how many other scars Logan has, hidden underneath his clothes. 

He wonders how long it’s been since he last healed, properly, from an injury. 

“What in the fuck are you supposed to be dressed up as?”

The bite may be gone from the man, but the bark still remains. Pierce laughs and, as he waves the bartender over, he toys with the idea of providing a fake name. It would certainly be more secure if he did but, on the other hand, if everything over the next few months goes right, he’ll never see Logan again, not even in passing. The amount of harm that could be caused by providing his real name is minimal. 

Besides, Pierce has a feeling that, if Logan’s healing factor is as compromised as he suspects, if he keeps drinking the way he is, he’s headed straight towards blackout territory, and he’s not bound to remember any of his night. 

“Donald,” he answers, pausing to order a beer from the bartender before he continues. “Or, should I say, I’m dressed as myself.”

Logan makes a sound similar to an incredulous snort, but it’s so damn weary that, for a moment, Pierce almost feels actual pity for the man.

Almost. 

“You a Don or a Donnie kind of guy?”

“Neither. Not unless you wanna leave here with some of your teeth missin’.” The last time someone called him Donnie, it’d been his drill sergeant in basic training, and he’d screamed it into Pierce’s ear until he thought he was going to go deaf, until he’d hauled off and slammed his right fist (still flesh and bone, at that point) into the guy’s meaty face, shattered his orbital socket and nose. The man had gotten one good punch in, knocked out one of Pierce’s teeth, but Pierce had gotten six of his sergeant’s, shredded his knuckles on the broken, jagged stumps. 

By all rights, that there should have been the extent of his career in the army. 

Instead, someone high up in the ranks, someone who worked for both the army and Transigen, had pulled rank, Pierce got a gold tooth to replace the one he'd lost, and the rest was history. 

“Most people just call me Pierce,” he continues, grinning at the memory. “What do they call you?”

There’s a long pause between the question and Logan’s answer. When he finally does answer, mumbles his name into the bottle, it’s in the tones of a defeated man, one suffocating under the weight of his own history. Pierce almost feels _embarrassed to witness_ it. It’s like seeing a sick animal at the zoo, long past its prime but kept alive by its keepers for its sheer rarity, the novelty of it. 

It’s all the answer Pierce needs, technically, to complete his mission. A man this broken, is no threat to him, to the company. If he left now, he could be on the road within the hour, could go back to Mexico City, to his comfortable quarters and his hands-on work. 

But it’s just so _pathetic._

He feels obligated to do something, throw Logan some kind of bone and, based on the way he’s chugging the whiskey back like it’s water, the best way to do that is by supplying more alcohol. 

“Well, Logan,” he replies, taking a moment to toss back half of his lukewarm beer, “It looks like that bottle of yours is comin’ up on empty. I’m sure you came here to get some peace and quiet, but if you’re amenable on sharing the next one, I’m willing to pay.” There’s a wad of cash in his pocket, and he pulls out enough money to purchase one of the more expensive bottles lining the back of the bar. When he glances over, Logan is just staring at him and, if he squints through his sunglasses, Pierce can almost see the man Logan used to be, can almost see the Wolverine in his eyes. 

“Yeah? What the fuck’s the catch?” 

Pierce doesn’t miss the way Logan’s fingers tighten on the bottle, like he’s preparing to swing it. 

“No catch,” he shrugs, making himself sound as disarming as possible. “Just feel like doin’ my good deed for the day. Besides,” he adds, taking a quick moment to scan Logan’s body, folded in on itself, “pretty sure you’ve got the weight advantage on me, if you were afraid I was gonna try something funny.” He grins again, presses his tongue to the tip of his gold tooth. It’s not a lie; battered as he may be, Logan is still a formidable size, still all broad shoulders and muscle poorly hidden under his ill-fitting clothes. 

But, weight advantage or not, claws or no claws, Pierce has a pistol with adamantium bullets hidden inside his coat and a hand capable of exerting more than enough pressure to snap clean through a bone or crush a windpipe. 

He may be only human (mostly, at least), but the advantage is his. 

“Fine,” Logan answers before grabbing his bottle and draining it, barely wincing. While he does that, Pierce takes his sunglasses off and tucks them into another pocket, since it’s looking like he might be staying a little longer than he anticipated. When Logan sets the bottle back on the bar, a single crack climbs up the side, all the way to the top.

“Don’t know your own strength,” he comments, shoving his money across to the bartender and murmuring the name of the bottle he wants, which is quickly passed into his hand along with a (mostly-clean) glass. 

“Or it was just a shitty bottle.” Logan grabs the new bottle from Pierce’s hand and pops the top off with a quick flick of his thumb. He raises it halfway to his mouth before the reality of the situation sets in and he pours it into his glass instead, fills it nearly to the brim. 

Pierce is a little more conservative, settles for three fingers that he plans on making last awhile.

“My favorite kind,” he says as he pours. “Don’t get much of it where I’m from, though.” It’s been months since he last drank; there’s never a good time at work for it, too much of a chance that he’ll have to attend to a matter that requires all of his attention. He raises the glass just high enough for him to catch the scent of the whiskey, let it bring back memories, most of them good. 

“It’s not bad.” Logan says the words like it pains him to pass them between his lips, but when Pierce glances over, it’s just in time to see him tip the glass back, draining it in one fell swoop, throat bobbing. 

It’s not a particularly out of place gesture. There’s nothing inherently heated about it, but Pierce still finds his his mind wandering in that direction. He could rein his thoughts in if he really cared to, but, for the time being at least, he lets them wander free. 

At the base of it, haggard as he may be, not all of Logan’s looks have left him. They’re just hidden, overshadowed by his thick beard and scars and beyond that, Pierce cannot deny that there would be something remarkable about being able to say, if only to himself, that he actually tamed the infamous Wolverine, if only for a night. 

Sure, he’s likely only one of many, but he’s probably the only one of those many still alive, and that’s an accomplishment all on its own. 

Of course, there’s no guarantee that will happen, no point on counting his chickens before they hatch but, although it’s certainly not the mission he came to El Paso for, he decides to pursue it with all the attention he'd pursue anything else.

&.

In the end, the amount of work he has to put in is surprisingly minimal. 

Logan keeps drinking steadily as they talk about nothing of consequence, inane conversation that Pierce can barely recall moments after they exchange it. After some time has passed, Pierce twists on the thinly padded stool so most of his body is facing Logan’s, mere inches left between their knees. Some time after _that_ , he leans forward, one elbow propped on the bar, until he’s well within Logan’s space. He continually keeps watch, waits for the other shoe to drop, waits to be knocked off his stool. 

But nothing happens. Logan just keeps drinking, and the more he drinks, the more he falls into Pierce’s space. 

Between the two of them, they’ve consumed two-thirds of the second bottle, and the bar is empty of all but the most dedicated drinkers, when Pierce decides that he’s waited a sufficient amount of time to make his move. 

While he’s not a betting man, his instincts tell him that the odds are in his favor.

“I’m gonna ask you something,” he says, throwing a bit of a slur into his voice, “and you tell me if I’m off base, alright?” 

The only answer he gets is a nod as Logan takes yet another swig from his glass.

Moment of truth. 

“You opposed to us goin’ outside?”

He waits. Logan doesn’t immediately react one way or another; he simply drops his eyes to the bar and adapts the thousand yard stare, like he’s fallen back into some decades old memory. Pierce simply waits it out, flexes his fingers slightly, just in case Logan suddenly snaps back into himself and decides to come out swinging. 

Instead, some kind of light, faded as it may be, floods back into his eyes, and he gives Pierce a loose nod. 

“Might as well,” he mutters into the rim of his glass. 

It’s not exactly a ringing endorsement, but Pierce will take what he can get. 

It’s nearly true morning when they step outside, and the city has quieted. The street is empty, and Pierce can hear birds chirping somewhere nearby, ready to announce the break of day at any moment. Logan’s feet are dragging along the ground, and he keeps bumping into Pierce, shoulder knocking against shoulder. 

Pierce doesn’t mind, not entirely, but it does make him wonder if Logan is really in any state to be doing anything but sleeping. 

It occurs to him that he should probably pretend to be impressed by Logan’s ride, even if it’s marred with dents and scratches, just to add a little bit more authenticity to the role he’s playing, but he waits until they’re closer to say anything. 

“A limo,” he remarks, adding on a long, low whistle that sounds like something that would have come from his father’s mouth. “As I live and breathe. Didn’t expect your ride to be so fancy.”

“Wouldn’t call it that,” Logan mutters or, at least, Pierce _thinks_ that’s what he mutters. The words come out as more of a growl than anything. He yanks open the back door of the limo and practically falls inside, disappears into the dark interior. Pierce follows with a little more care, stoops to avoid smashing his head off the roof, and pulls the door closed, shutting them into darkness that smells slightly of old booze and has retained some of the previous day’s sweltering heat. The exterior of the limo may not be anything fancy, but the seats are comfortable enough, pass as real leather even though Pierce knows the real thing, has his hands covered in it. He settles back against them, releasing tension he didn’t know he was holding. 

“Fancy enough. If I’d known you were driving a limo, I would have asked if you wanted to step outside a lot earlier.” As lines go, it isn’t a great one, but it falls from Pierce’s mouth with ease. Logan doesn’t respond right away and, while it’s hard to tell in only the orange glow being thrown by a nearby streetlight, Pierce suspects he’s fallen right back into that thousand yard stare again, drowning himself in self-pity and memories. 

“Everything alright?” he asks when the silence starts to approach the wrong side of tedious. He slides across the seat a little, until his knee knocks against Logan’s. 

“You really think this is a good idea?” Logan shoves his hands against his eyes, like he’s trying to dig into his very skull. His voice is definitely more slur than anything, and he slumps further down into the seat. Pierce half-expects him to just keep going, slide right to the floor in a boneless heap.

Frankly, Pierce is pretty sure this is nowhere near the top of his list of good ideas, and if Rice knew what he was doing, he’d probably get his goddamn head blown off (or ripped off by X-24). But, on the flip-side, it’s also nowhere near a bad idea, and if there’s anyone he can trust to keep his secrets, it’s himself. 

He thinks it’s about time to officially get the show on the road, or at least make one more concerted effort at getting the wheels moving. 

His coat is just going to impede his movement, so he shrugs it off, lets it slither to the floor before he says, “I’ve had worse in my time.”

If there’s one thing that can be said about tonight, it’s that that statement isn’t a lie. 

He takes a few moments to decide how to proceed. In the end, he goes with the option that is the least physically threatening but still portrays a certain image. He drops to the floor between Logan’s splayed apart legs and rests his gloved hands just above his knees, on hard flesh that’s still more muscle than anything. It’s not a position he’s been in for a long time, but he settles right back into it, remembers exactly why it used to be one of his favorites. 

It’s deceptively powerful, in its own unique way. 

“You say the word, and I stop. Easy as that,” he says quietly, using the same kind of tone he would to try and calm a rabid animal or one of the unruly test subjects. He creeps his fingers just an inch or two higher before pausing, waiting some more. 

This time, Logan actually responds, quick enough that for a moment, Pierce almost forgets just how drunk and _broken_ he is. One huge, scarred hand drops to the back of his neck, easily covers it, could probably easily snap it, if Logan felt so inclined. 

“Get up here first,” he says resignedly. His legs stretch out, bracketing Pierce, joints creaking underneath his skin. The sounds are what you’d expect from someone who has lived a long, hard life, not a mutant who is supposed to be able to survive pretty much anything. “You’re not gonna have much luck if you start down there.”

It’s not what Pierce expects to hear, but it’s something that he can work with.

He pulls himself up until he has one knee on either side of Logan’s waist. Even when he cranes his neck, the roof is a presence directly above him, brushing at the back of his neck, so he hunkers down further, until they’re touching in half a dozen spots. It’s been even longer since Pierce has done this, and while he can’t allow his guard to drop entirely, he allows most of his mind and body to drop into the moment. 

There isn’t no point in doing it if he isn’t enjoying himself, after all. 

“Alright,” he murmurs, passing his right hand through the thick, tangled hair covering Logan’s face and trailing back into his hair. He wonders what it would feel like under his fingertips. “I can work with this.” 

“Good.” Logan shuts his eyes even before he tilts his head back, and his thick fingers drop to Pierce’s thighs. “Now shut the fuck up.” 

Pierce has spent most of the day waiting, and he doesn’t much feel like doing any more of it, but he takes two seconds before he leans down and gets his mouth on Logan’s to simply smirk to himself. 

All bark and no bite. 

&.

On a purely physical front, it’s not particularly memorable. It’s simply an encounter, one that leaves Pierce with an aching jaw and stains on his coat and gloves, a sore spot on the back of his head from having his hair pulled and a bite mark on his thigh. 

But, on an intelligence gathering front, it’s certainly interesting. 

They only take off as many clothes as necessary, but Pierce still feels scars under his gloves. Logan’s chest is covered with them, with textured ridges of flesh and puckered bullet wounds. When Pierce experimentally presses his thumb into one, Logan pins both of his wrists to the ground. 

When all’s said and done, Logan passes out almost as soon as he’s fully dressed again, face-down on the floor. Pierce momentarily thinks about maybe getting him up onto the seat, somewhere more comfortable, but he ultimately decides against it. For starters, Logan is heavy, solid as stone, and trying to move him in such a confined space just seems like more trouble than it's worth. There's also the fact that daylight has started filtering through the windows, and he wants to be back on his way before the sun gets too high in the sky. 

He has a long drive ahead of him. 

He makes sure he has all of his things, not a piece of him left behind, and steps out into the morning. His truck has, thankfully, been undisturbed, and he twirls his keys around one finger as he strides across the lot to it. 

Even if Logan does remember him come wake-up time, and that’s a big _if_ , it doesn’t matter. Unless something huge changes in the next few months, unless Logan decides to crawl out of the vat of self-pity he’s stewing himself in, he won’t be a threat to anyone, let alone their program. 

Pierce takes one last look at the limo before he slides into the truck. 

If all goes according to plan, it’ll be the last time he sees it, or its driver, outside of the realm of occasional photographs and videos.

&.

Everything does not go according to plan. 

In the chaos of the purge, a nurse escapes, with the twenty-third test subject in the X-23 program, with one of the subjects he is directly responsible for. She flees north to El Paso, to Wolverine.

This time, Pierce finds Logan outside a hospital. 

It’s been raining for hours, and the vast expanse of dreary sky shows no signs of letting up anytime soon. Logan’s limo is parked illegally, and the man himself is just under a pavilion near the front door, exchanging words with a male nurse in blue scrubs. The conversation is a short one; a wad of cash is exchanged for a paper bag that Logan shelters under his jacket as he jogs back to the car. 

Even across the distance and through the rain, it’s easy to tell that Logan’s looking even rougher around the edges. His beard and hair are longer and scruffier, and he has a limp so pronounced that it almost looks exaggerated. Just before he ducks inside the limo, he ducks his mouth into the crook of his elbow and coughs, the motion shaking his entire body. 

Pierce waits for only a moment before he slides from the truck, pulls his coat tighter around himself, and crosses the road, rain dappling his sunglasses. 

Time to see if Logan’s memory has fared just as poorly as the rest of him. 

He tugs the back door open and slides inside, settles back into the oh-so-comfortable seats as Logan whips around. One hand is wrapped around the stem of a bottle, and there’s not a spark of recognition in his eyes, not even an inkling. 

That answers Pierce’s question. 

“As I live and breathe,” he says, biting back the urge to whistle. “The Wolverine. And he’s a _junkie_.” The comment sinks in; even in the back, he can hear the steering wheel creak ominously as Logan’s fingers tighten around it. 

“Who the fuck are you?” 

Pierce grins. 

Seems like the old guy might have some fight left in him yet. 

“You know,” he says, with a laugh borne of equal parts relief, pity and amusement, “I had a feeling you were gonna say that.”

**Author's Note:**

> these two fics literally took over my life for five days. oops. 
> 
> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
